I replied that I had not heard of it.
“Well, they have, and the superintendent wants to prohibit fishing there, so that he can get a supply of eggs large enough to stock all these waters, which will soon be stripped of trout unless there are some put in to take the place of the multitudes that are caught every year. The superintendent sets traps in the outlet to catch the fish so that he can get their eggs, and three or four fellows who live right there, and who look enough like Matt Coyle to be his brothers, go to the outlet every night and cut the nets. The superintendent threatened to have them arrested if they didn’t quit it, and they told him that they had always fished in that outlet, and if he wanted the hatchery buildings to stay there, he hadn’t better try to stop them. I heard the whole conversation. I was down there when old Dead Shot was broken.”
“Who’s Dead Shot?” I inquired.
“I am,” faintly replied Arthur Hastings’s crippled rod.
“Why, that’s a queer name for you to bear,” said I. “I think it would be more appropriate for a shot-gun or rifle.”
“Perhaps it would; but Arthur has always called me that since I caught his first string of yellow pike for him, and it is the name I go by. I never let a fish get away when I get a good grip on him—that is, when I have some one to handle me who knows what he is about. But Jake don’t know any thing about a rod, for he has always fished with a pole he cut in the bushes. On the day the superintendent talked so plainly to the vagabonds who cut his nets, Jake was fishing in the outlet, and Matt was hiding in one of the cabins. A little fish—I should not think he weighed more than a pound, judging by the bite he gave—took the hook, which was baited with worms, and Jake tried to yank him out by main strength, as he had always been in the habit of doing; but the line caught between two rocks, and as Jake threw back his head and surged on me with all the muscle he had, I broke. That’s all there was of it.”
“And do you think that Matt Coyle will strike hands with those fellows at the outlet?” I asked, when Dead Shot had ended his story.
“He has done it already, and our friends here have undertaken a bigger job than they bargained for,” answered the bait-rod. “Those vagabonds are all tarred with the same stick. They sympathize with Matt, and will hide him in their houses and help him in every way they can.”
“Haven’t we got force enough to go into the houses and take him out?”
“We’ve got the force, but not the authority. There’s not an officer or a search-warrant in our party.”